


anathema device, professional descendant and amateur book-burner

by suzukiblu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, F/M, Family, M/M, Post-Canon, Secrets, Self-Discovery, Slice of Life, series coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25133914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: “How did you evenfindme?” Aziraphale asks from behind the counter, looking genuinely puzzled. Which, fair enough; they hadn’t exactly left forwarding addresses when they’d left Tadfield.“I’m a witch, aren’t I?” Anathema says. Witches are good at solving problems. “Where’s your husband?”“Myhusband?” Aziraphale sputters.“Yes! The flash bastard who used to make stars!” She slams her bag down on the counter for emphasis. “He needs to hear this too!”“Firstof all, he’s not my husband, andsecondof all, I’m not his keeper,” Aziraphale says with an indignant huff. “Thirdly, he’s taking a nap in the back, please don’t be so loud, you’ll wake him up.”
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 34
Kudos: 640





	anathema device, professional descendant and amateur book-burner

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to write at least one thing with Anathema and this is what fell out of my keyboard.

The angels are probably not expecting company when Anathema slams open the front door of their bookshop, admittedly frazzled and probably a little wild-eyed. Agnes’s book is clutched under her arm. It isn’t smoke-stained anymore, which she assumes is because of Adam but isn’t actually sure about. It just sort of happened. 

“We have a problem,” she announces. 

“How did you even _find_ me?” Aziraphale asks from behind the counter, looking genuinely puzzled. Which, fair enough; they hadn’t exactly left forwarding addresses when they’d left Tadfield. 

“I’m a witch, aren’t I?” Anathema says. Witches are good at solving problems. “Where’s your husband?” 

“My _husband_?” Aziraphale sputters. 

“Yes! The flash bastard who used to make stars!” She slams her bag down on the counter for emphasis. “He needs to hear this too!” 

“ _First_ of all, he’s not my husband, and _second_ of all, I’m not his keeper,” Aziraphale says with an indignant huff. “Thirdly, he’s taking a nap in the back, please don’t be so loud, you’ll wake him up.” 

“WE HAVE A PROBLEM,” Anathema repeats, loudly. Aziraphale gives her a put-out look. 

“Since when?” he asks. 

“Since now!” Anathema throws her arms up in the air. “My mother’s coming!” 

“. . .” Aziraphale says. 

“You don’t understand,” Anathema says. “There was a whole other book of prophecy, and I burned it, and my mother is going to _find out_ —”

“You burned a _book_?!” Aziraphale asks in horror. 

“This is why I wanted to talk to your husband!” Anathema says. 

“Who’s got a husband?” Crowley asks groggily as he walks up from the back, rubbing at his eyes. “Angel?” 

“Apparently, yes,” Aziraphale says. “And someone else’s problem, as well.” 

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Anathema says frantically. “Last time we talked I’d just lost the first book, and now I’ve burned the second one! She’ll never forgive me!” 

“And this is _our_ problem because . . .?” Crowley squints at her. 

“You hit me!” Anathema says. “I only lost the book to begin with because of you!” 

“I mean, all things considered it seems you were _meant_ to mislay it, and we _did_ get it back to you—” Aziraphale starts. Anathema slams the book down on the counter next to her bag. She’s feeling no less frantic. 

“And was I _meant_ to burn the other book?!” she demands. 

“Please stop saying that,” Aziraphale says with a grimace. 

“What other book, now?” Crowley asks. 

“Agnes’s other book!” Anathema gestures emphatically at the first one. “A lawyer delivered it, and I burned it in the field!” 

“You burned the second volume of the only true book of prophecy that exists on this earth. In a field,” Aziraphale says, looking vaguely ill. “I might need to go have a lie-down for a decade or two.” 

“Well, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it, her bothering to write a whole second volume if she knew it was getting burned,” Crowley says, squinting doubtfully at the book. “Then again, what am I saying, might as well think to put an apple tree on the moon.” 

“I don’t know what that _means_!” Anathema is feeling increasingly hysterical. 

“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale says. “Really though, dear, why did you come to _us_? We can’t un-destroy something. Well, I mean, if you brought the ashes, I suppose we—” 

“I don’t want the book back!” Anathema says in horror. “That’s the _last_ thing I want! I just need a way to distract my mother until all this end of the world stuff finishes blowing over and it can’t be Newt because he’s a _terrible_ liar!” 

“Until the end of the world finishes blowing over,” Aziraphale says. 

“Yes!” 

“And you think we’re going to distract your mother for you because . . .?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. 

“You hit me with a _car_!” Anathema says. 

“. . . alright, fair enough.” 

“Oh, Crowley, _really_ ,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “Don’t we have enough on our plates?” 

“I thought all we were doing today was dinner?” Crowley says. 

“Exactly!” Aziraphale says. 

“I’ll buy you dinner!” Anathema says. “I’ll buy you a _dozen_ dinners!” 

“We were going to the Ritz,” Aziraphale says, put-out again. 

“I’ll buy _out_ the Ritz!” 

“. . . we’re listening,” Aziraphale says. 

“Look,” Anathema says, shoving her glasses up and trying to pull herself a bit more together. “Look, I just need her distracted while I hide Newt and all the damning evidence, okay? Hell, you can take _her_ to dinner, that’d be perfect! Tell her some angel things, she’d be fascinated!” 

“Angel things, _really_ ,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly. “As if we just go around talking about that kind of thing to just anyone.” 

“I only know so many of those, anyway,” Crowley says, pointedly flicking a forked tongue at her as he tucks his hands into his pockets. 

“I’m open to demon things,” Anathema says, though she wasn’t actually clear on which one of them was the demon before the forked tongue thing. “You helped Adam save the world, tell her about _that_! Except for the part where I lost the book. Don’t mention that part.” 

“It was rather an important part,” Aziraphale says. “Vital, one might say.” 

“Well, gloss over it!” she says. “You’re immortal occult forces, surely you can entertain one human for an evening!” 

“Angels aren’t occult, we’re _ethereal_ ,” Aziraphale huffs. 

“And I’m more a babysitter than a host,” Crowley says, pushing his sunglasses up. “Now, if you wanted us to distract the _Antichrist_ for the evening . . .” 

“He’s grounded,” Anathema says. The other two just sort of . . . _squint_ at her. 

“The Adversary,” Aziraphale starts. 

“Is _grounded_ ,” Crowley finishes. 

“Keep up!” Anathema waves her hands anxiously. “We don’t have that long, her flight’ll be here in two hours and I’m supposed to meet her at the airport!” 

“Really cutting it to the wire there, aren’t you,” Crowley says. 

“I tried the other witchhunter first,” Anathema says. “He wasn’t home.” 

“ _None_ of them, really?” Aziraphale looks baffled. 

“I already told you, Newt’s a terrible liar!” Anathema says. “And who knows where Shadwell is, and I can’t exactly sic the _Them_ on her!” 

“The Them?” Aziraphale frowns. 

“The kids, angel,” Crowley says. He leans against the counter. “What’s the point of distracting her? Aren’t you going to have to tell her eventually?” 

“Ideally, no,” Anathema says. She can dream, at least. “And if I _do_ have to, at least I can put it off until I’ve coached _my_ husband on what to say!” 

“Oh, I didn’t realize you two were married,” Aziraphale says. 

“It’s complicated!” Anathema says, clasping her hands together pleadingly. This isn’t going to be very dignified, but she’s not above that when it comes to dealing with her family. “Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, _please_ , I don’t have anyone else to ask! I don’t have any friends over the age of eleven!” 

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Aziraphale says. 

“Oh, lighten up, angel, she did promise you a free dinner. Besides, not very angelic to be going around turning down prayers, is it?” Crowley says. Aziraphale huffs indignantly, but softens. Anathema thanks God for people who are weak to their romantic partners. Literally, probably, she should literally be thanking God. 

“I don’t have to be angelic anymore,” Aziraphale says. “But I _suppose_ we could help. It would be a bit rude to turn down someone involved with the whole saving the world bit.” 

“ _Thank_ you,” Anathema says. 

“Don’t thank us yet, you don’t know how dinner’s going to go,” Crowley says with a dangerous smirk. Anathema would be concerned, normally, but right now she could really care less. Again: two hours until her mother gets here. And her alternate option is still _Newt_ , which—no, just no. Even _without_ him being a terrible liar, there’s still the whole issue with Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer burning Agnes at the stake, and she really has no idea how the family’s going to take that. It was less of a concern when they all thought the world was going to end, but she’s pretty sure they’re going to care now. She can’t exactly say Agnes said they were going to get married without explaining where Agnes _said_ that, for starters. 

It’s definitely complicated. 

“It can’t go any worse than me telling her about burning the book would,” Anathema says. 

“ _Please_ stop saying that,” Aziraphale says again. 

“Sorry,” Anathema says, though she isn’t really. She _really_ needs this favor, though. If they can just buy her some time, well—well, she’s not sure, actually, she’s never had to handle anything this complicated without a convenient prophecy to hand. But she’ll figure something out. “Listen, alright, it’s simple. You have dinner with her, you drink some wine, you talk about the end of the world and maybe about Agnes’s book—her _first_ book—and I’ll deal with everything else. Simple!” 

“Doesn’t sound that simple, actually,” Crowley says. 

“I’ll buy out the Ritz _twice_!” Anathema says. 

“Well, if you insist,” Aziraphale demurs, and then he locks up the shop and they all get into the Bentley because Crowley refuses to get anywhere near Anathema’s tiny little rental car and beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, he probably knows the way to Heathrow better than she does. The car ride is incredibly awkward, mostly spent listening to Aziraphale muttering disbelieving things about the second book and Crowley’s apparent obsession with Queen. Anathema decides to keep silent, lest they think of a reason to think better of helping her out. 

It _is_ a bit terrifying when she realizes how goddamn _fast_ Crowley drives when he’s not pretending to be human in a small village. But he is an angel—demon—and she supposes he can get away with that sort of thing. 

. . . hopes, more like. 

“Crowley, _really_ —” Aziraphale says in exasperation. 

“Am I going too fast for you, angel?” Crowley asks with a grin. 

“If we get discorporated, they aren’t giving us new bodies!” Aziraphale says with a disapproving frown. “And they’re _certainly_ not giving Mrs. Pulsifier one!” 

“It’s still Ms. Device, actually,” Anathema says faintly, clinging to the back of his seat and a little terrified for her life. “Also I’m going to keep my maiden name. Newt might take it, actually, we were talking a bit about his ancestors and they’re not very—do you want to come to the wedding, actually, my side of the aisle’s probably going to be a bit light on guests. Especially if this goes badly.” 

“Will there be cake?” Aziraphale asks. 

“As much cake as you want,” Anathema swears. 

“Well, perhaps we could swing by the reception,” Aziraphale says. “When are you having it?” 

“When are you free?” she asks. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who looks back at him (and, alarmingly, _not_ at the road), and then shrugs. 

“Well . . . I suppose forever, now,” he says. “We aren’t exactly on speaking terms with our people anymore.” 

“Oh,” Anathema says. “Er. I’m sorry?” 

“Oh, don’t be, they tried to execute us,” Aziraphale says, waving her off. “We’re on our own side now. I suppose this really is the least we can do, Agnes _did_ help us out with that.” 

“She does that kind of thing, yes,” Anathema says, then pauses, remembering—“Well. Did.”

“And you burned up the book of further useful prophecies,” Crowley says. Aziraphale grimaces. 

“I just didn’t want to be a _descendant_ anymore,” Anathema says. “That’s all I’ve ever been, is Agnes’s descendant. Newt said we should burn it, so . . .” 

“The witchfinder said to burn a witch’s book and that sounded like a good idea to you?” Crowley cocks an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror. 

“It wasn’t like _that_!” Anathema says, turning red. “Anyway, he’s _not_ a witchfinder anymore.” 

“But you’re still a witch,” Crowley says, still looking at her in the mirror. She feels like she can see his eyes even through the dark glasses. She feels how _old_ those eyes are. 

“Please at least _try_ to look at the road, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley narrowly avoids hitting the curb, and also several pedestrians. Anathema would be more concerned about the pedestrians if she didn’t think she was about to die herself, probably. Possibly via car crash; possibly via very old eyes. 

Maybe burning the book was a mistake. She could’ve given it to her mother, let her and the rest of the family do what they wanted with it. But Anathema is the last of them all, the youngest descendant in a direct line to Agnes, and she’d just thought . . . 

Agnes had sent the book to _her_ , not anyone else. 

Agnes had sent _her_ the choice, if it’d really been a choice at all. 

Anathema wonders what Agnes wrote on all those pages, if she knew Anathema would only burn them. Scribbles? Recipes? Journal entries? Real prophecies, all destined to go up in smoke? Something that would make the idea of an apple tree on the moon make sense? 

Maybe Agnes hadn’t known if she’d burn it or not, she thinks. 

But Agnes had known _everything_. 

Hadn’t she? 

They make it to the airport more or less alright, and miraculously without so much as a scratch on the car. Anathema makes it out of the car, feeling _very_ scratched despite the fact they didn’t hit anything. Or anyone. 

“Please don’t drive like that with my mother in the car,” she says. 

“Like what?” Crowley asks with a wicked grin. Anathema leans over the nearest trash can with a groan. 

“I’d apologize for him but he isn’t going to behave any better even if I do,” Aziraphale says, giving her a little pat on the back. Oddly, she feels much better after the pat. She does _not_ feel much better after the total lack of reassurance in what he just said, though, so there’s a bit of a back and forth situation going on there. 

“That was terrifying,” she says. 

“Yes, he’s fond of that kind of thing,” Aziraphale says. “Now, which gate is your mother coming in?” 

They get inside the airport, and Anathema’s not sure if it’s a curse or a mercy that her mother is already waiting at baggage claim. It _is_ convenient, if nothing else. 

“Mom!” she calls, waving to her as she heads over with heavenly and demonic forces on either side, which is not a situation she expected to be in today. 

“Anathema!” Her mother breaks into a wide smile and hugs her. Anathema hugs her back. Normally she’d be pleased to see her mother, honestly, but right now it’s _really_ an unnecessary stress. “How did the end of the world go, darling?” 

“Oh, you know, it went,” Anathema says, trying to sound casual. “How was it for you?” 

“Very uneventful,” her mother says. “Your father and I spent it with a nice bottle of wine and a few of the neighbors. We were _delighted_ to survive, let me tell you.” 

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Anathema says. 

“Which one’s the witchfinder?” her mother asks, peeking over her shoulder with a slightly doubtful expression. Since both the options look her father’s age, she doesn’t blame her. 

“Neither of them, I left him at the cottage to clean up from the tornado,” Anathema says, which is of course a lie because Adam already _did_ clean up from the tornado. He did not, however, clean up all the smashed-up pots in the garden, which she’d really rather not explain the source of. “This is Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, this is my mother.” 

“A pleasure, Mrs. Device,” Crowley says with a serpentine smile. 

“Oh, please, call me Gabriella,” she says, smiling back at him. 

“Then you’ll have to call me Anthony,” he says. 

“Mr. Fell is fine,” Aziraphale says, and her mother laughs. Anathema hopes this means they’re hitting it off, but also dreads that this might mean they’re hitting it off. There’s a fine line somewhere in there and she really doesn’t want it crossed. 

“Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell were in Tadfield at the airbase,” she says. “They, er, were very helpful.” 

“No we weren’t,” Crowley says. 

“Not at all,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“They did help Adam deny his father,” Anathema says, pointing down at the ground meaningfully. 

“We also tried to kill him,” Crowley puts in helpfully. Anathema resists the urge to glare at him. That is _not actually helpful_. 

“Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were hoping to take you to dinner!” she says brightly. “I’ve got to clear up a few things with the witchfinders, very boring, wouldn’t want to put you through it after you just got here and all. But Mr. Fell is _so_ interested in Agnes’s book, I thought you’d have much more to talk about with him!” 

“Well, I suppose there’s not much point in being secretive about it anymore,” her mother says. “We’re all out of prophecies, after all.” 

“Yes! Yes we are!” Anathema laughs. Loudly. And does _not_ panic, not even a _little_. “Mr. Fell has a bookshop, you know! Specializes in rare books!” 

“Oh, that sounds fascinating!” her mother says. “I’d love to see what you have! Maybe pick up a conversation piece or two, you know, something for the library.” 

“Oh, heavens no, I don’t _sell_ them,” Aziraphale says. 

“I’m sorry, I thought Anathema said you had a shop,” her mother says. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. 

“. . . but you don’t . . . sell things?” 

“Correct!” He beams at her. 

“Oh, well, alright then,” her mother says, apparently unbothered. Anathema stares incredulously at the pair of them. Crowley is sniggering. “I’d still love to see them, our family’s very big on old books. Obviously.” 

“Well, of course!” Aziraphale is still beaming. “I’d be happy to show you the collection, anytime. We’re not doing much these days, really, what with the whole Apocalypse issue. Our people weren’t very pleased with us, so we’re all just sort of leaving each other alone right now.” 

“Your people?” her mother asks. 

“They’re not human, Mom,” Anathema says. “Mr. Fell is an angel, and Mr. Crowley is a demon. Er. I think I’ve got that right, anyway.” 

“Oh, I would’ve assumed it’d be the other way around,” her mother says. Aziraphale and Crowley both look at each other, then laugh. 

They all head back to the Bentley, which Anathema now realizes is not parked in a legal parking spot but all the same has miraculously gone unticketed, untowed, and entirely unnoticed. Her mother makes some impressed noises about the car, Crowley preens, and Aziraphale sighs. Anathema checks to make sure she still has Agnes’s book in her bag for the thousandth time of the day, then gets in. They drive back to the bookshop, the other three making pleasant chit-chat and Anathema desperately trying to _sound_ like she’s making pleasant chit-chat and not actually internally panicking about what her mother’s going to think if she finds out about the book. Either book, at this point, but _especially_ the second one. Obviously. 

Things seem to be going smoothly right now, at least. Her mother seems to be charmed by Aziraphale and Crowley, and they seem to be perfectly happy to make conversation with her, which bodes well, Anathema thinks. Aziraphale is especially animated, mostly when talking about his books, and her mother seems interested in that, so . . . 

She _thinks_ things are going smoothly? She thinks? 

Dear God, please let things be going smoothly. 

“And let me tell _you_ , Nazis have _no_ respect for _anything_ ,” Aziraphale says huffily. “I wasn’t sorry to see the back of them!” 

“How _awful_ ,” Anathema’s mother says. “Those poor books!” 

“I know!” Aziraphale says. “It was a miracle they survived!” 

“Literally, yes,” Crowley says wryly. 

Nazi-killing stories would win over anyone’s mother, Anathema thinks, and the old book talk isn’t hurting either, which is definitely a good thing. Her mother hasn’t thought to ask any questions about tornado damage or exactly what she needs to take care of with the witchfinders, for example. Also, Aziraphale appears to have a special interest in books of prophecy, which _definitely_ isn’t hurting. 

They get to the bookshop without any awkward questions, and Anathema kisses her mother on the cheek, slips Crowley her credit card to cover dinner, and immediately abandons them for her rental car. 

“Won’t be long!” she lies brightly, waving goodbye before peeling out maybe a _bit_ too fast. Again, though: awkward questions. The longer she sticks around, the likelier her mother is to think of some. 

She drives back to Tadfield at a truly inadvisable speed, which she’s going to blame on Crowley and also blind panic, and finds Newt uselessly tidying her garden, which is charming but clearly not something he’s particularly skilled at. He’s cleaned up all the pots very well, at least; she supposes he’s used to dealing with broken things. 

“Did you manage to get ahold of Shadwell?” he asks her. 

“No,” she says. “But I found the angels. Well, the demons. The angel and the demon.” 

_“Them?”_ Newt says, looking slightly ill. It sounds a bit like the way people around here talk about Adam and his friends. 

“I may have been slightly desperate,” Anathema says. “Also, they were in the area.” 

“You didn’t have to—summon them or something?” Newt asks uncertainly. 

“They own a bookshop.” 

“A _what_?” 

“Especially interested in books of prophecy, even.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Yes, they weren’t thrilled when they heard about the fate of the book which shall not be named,” Anathema says. “Well, the demon wasn’t. Sorry, no, the angel. Aziraphale. I keep forgetting which is which.” 

“Aziraphale sounds a bit angelic, I suppose,” Newt says doubtfully. 

“Well, more-so than Anthony J. Crowley, anyway,” Anathema says. 

“. . . the demon’s name is _Anthony_?” 

“Apparently.” Anathema starts hunting around the ground looking for missed pottery shards. Firstly, she doesn’t want her mother seeing any; secondly, she doesn’t want the Them _stepping_ on any. 

“Isn’t there a saint named Anthony?” Newt asks. 

“Patron saint of lost things, small requests, and the poor,” Anathema agrees, checking under a bush. Agnes wrote a bit about some saints, though not especially much. Agnes wrote a bit about a lot of things, really. “And the illiterate, apparently, which is a bit interesting considering how much of saving the world just depended on reading.” 

“Well, destroying it also nearly depended on it, a little,” Newt hints awkwardly, which, yes, perhaps Anathema will drip-feed her reading lists a _bit_ more in the future as opposed to accidentally overwhelming the Antichrist all at once. 

“I suppose neither of them sounds especially angelic or demonic, really,” she says. “Or at least, not any more than the other one does.” 

“What an odd couple,” Newt says. 

“Entirely,” she agrees. “Oh, I invited them to the wedding, by the way.” 

“. . . on purpose?” 

“Mostly.” She checks under another bush. Newt really did do a good job with the pottery shards, it seems, and she straightens up and dusts her skirt off with a vague sense of relief. “We’re a bit light on guests anyway. My family _may_ disown me after this, after all.” 

“Only if we get caught,” Newt says. Anathema appreciates the practicality of the response, and especially the sentiment behind it. 

“Only if,” she agrees, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Thank you for cleaning up." 

"Oh, it was no trouble," he says, hiding his hands behind his back. She immediately assumes he cut himself at some point, but he wasn't noticeably bleeding so that's probably fine. 

"Need a bandage?" she asks wryly. He blushes. 

"I found them already," he says. 

“Good,” she says. “Come on, let’s go inside and figure out what we’re telling my mother.” 

“Nothing, I thought,” Newt says. 

“An excellent start, but unfortunately there may be _questions_ ,” Anathema says. “Like about Thou-Shalt-Not-Commity-Adultery Pulsifer.” 

“Ah,” Newt said with a grimace. “Him.” 

“Mmmhm.” 

The angels—demons—aren't a perfect solution and she still has no real plans for how to handle her mother, much less the rest of the family, but it's a little easier to relax about that with Newt. Agnes sent her the book for a reason, and if that reason just went up in smoke, well . . . then at least Anathema’s not just a descendant anymore, either way. 

Honestly, Anathema's always felt like she'd be lost without Agnes's prophecies, but now that she's _decided_ to be without them . . . 

Well. It's a whole new world, isn't it. 

Exactly the same as the old one, yes, but so much better all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
